


Driven By a Devil's Hunger

by project_canary



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Archeologist AU, Gen, Possession AU, not gonna say who or what yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_canary/pseuds/project_canary
Summary: As an archeologist, Bed has a certain threshold of things he believes in, and curses are not one of them.





	1. Gravedigger

_ There’s no such thing as curses. _ Bed inhaled, sliding the mask over his eyes. The captain nodded and gave Bed a thumbs up, and Bed nodded back in acknowledgement before falling backwards with a splash, letting his body fall through the warm Caribbean sea as he tried to calm his beating heart. Every one of his movements were precise and calculated as he swam through the darkening water towards the wreckage of the Spanish ship. Curses didn’t scare Bed. Sharks on the other hand? He exhaled and a flurry of bubbles rose above his head as he continued further down, igniting his flashlight into the dark. 

The ship seemed to come out of nowhere, appearing suddenly, the tip of the bow reaching out towards Bed and almost impaling him as he backpedaled, treading water as he shone his flashlight over the wreck. It was surprisingly intact, one of the better specimens that Bed had searched. He swam closer, being careful to look out for sea creatures that had made the old ship their home. A swarm of fish caught Bed’s eye and he swung around, his light landing on a large hole in the hull. A way in. Bed swam towards the damaged hull, pausing as he shone his flashlight in. Seaweed and other vegetation seemed to have eaten away at the bottom of the boat, making it difficult to see much further in. He never had felt uneasy on a dig, never felt uneasy on a dive. _ So what was so different now?  _ Bed thought to himself. 

Bed had been on what his superiors called a ‘treasure hunt’ for that last two years and a half years. Following clues, scraps of old maps, cave drawings, spoken legend. That’s where it had started at least. A half-drunk rumor from a local in Bolivia at a bar in the middle of nowhere. Whispered, jokingly between friends when they thought Bed wasn’t listening. 

“Pobre niño está buscando la Ciudad de la Muerte.” Bed downed the rest of his drink before grabbing the man’s shoulders. 

“¿Qué ciudad?” The color drained from the man’s face as he crossed himself. “¿Qué ciudad?” Bed repeated. 

The City of the Dead. Bed had heard it called many things, but that was the most common. The place was rumored to house sacred artifacts from cultures all over the world, as well as contain the remains of the entire population. A group suicide to appease the gods, Bed guessed, but rumors were much more colorful. The place was cursed, protected by an army of the undead, hidden from modern eyes with magic. No modern archeologist had found the place. Yet. Bed was close, he could feel it. A few months ago, he had come across a ship’s log in the Bodleian that mentioned travel from “a city built on bones” where they had stopped for help after a sailor had fallen sick. The ship had sunk at sea on it’s return travel, the log survived through a sailor that had made it off. 

Bed needed this to be it. He needed something. Anything. Because in a week, his contract with MIT was over, and he’d be back on his own. And for an archeologist that didn’t seem to be that good at finding anything, that wasn’t going to be good. Criken had been able to extend his contract as far as he could, but even Criken couldn’t back a researcher that didn’t have anything to research and was chasing hunches. Pricks. 

Bed checked his watch, mentally doing the math. He only had another 20 minutes before it would be dark and he would have to quit the dive for tonight. He swam in a little circle, getting more and more frustrated. There had to be something here. He pushed off the floor and towards the cannons when a flash caught his eye. Bed exhaled, bubbles clouding his vision before he could see it: a smuggler’s hold. If there was treasure aboard this ship, this is where they would’ve hidden it. Bed gripped at the edges of the wood, trying to find a slit to work his fingers through. He groaned, and his hands found a hole. He pulled up and the section came clean off, floating gently to the deck. Bed shined the light inside. A single gold coin reflected back; the shine he had caught earlier. Bed swam down and a rush of grey swam up past him, flinging him back. Bed only caught a glimpse of the shark before it bolted out and Bed fought his instincts to swim straight for the surface. 

Bed carefully lowered himself into the hold, slowly letting his light wash over the contents. A few crates, barrels that Bed recognized as gunpowder, and a strange shape in the corner. Bed swam towards the shape, and as he got closer he recognized it: a skeleton, curled into the fetal position, his vertebrates protruding from his rotting clothes. As Bed got closer, he noticed that the man seemed to be clutching something close to his chest. Carefully, trying his hardest to avoid disturbing the scene, Bed turned the skeleton. It was a strange looking corpse, Bed realized, feeling dread rise in his throat. 

This sailor didn’t drown. The edges of his clothes were blackened and dissolved as Bed touched them. His head was thrown back and his mouth hung open, the tendons still holding his jaw together. Where ribs would’ve covered his heart was a hole, the bone around it dark and holey. Somehow, someway, this man had his heart burned out, and due to the positioning of the skeleton, while he was still alive. Delicately, Bed unclasped the sailor’s fingers, revealing a small canister. It was about the size of a football, and in the dark of the waters with only his flashlight, it seemed unadorned and plain, with only a few inscriptions on the side that Bed didn’t recognize. It was heavy, and as Bed picked it up a groan echoed through the entire ship. That was Bed’s cue to leave. He checked his watch. And not a minute too soon. 

Light filtered its way from the surface as he swam closer and closer. His depth gauge beeped. He stopped, treading water. Time to decompress. He took a deep breath, waiting for the bubbled to leave his system. Something quick swam behind him, and Bed turned as quickly as he could, but whatever it was disappeared. His heartbeat quickened. Again, a flash of movement, and Bed felt like he was being toyed with.  _ Just a few more minutes, _ he thought. Movement below him, and he made a quick decision to swim like his life depended on it. 

Bed broke the surface, his ears ringing and reached up, the captain of the boat pulling him aboard as Bed felt something pull on his flippers. Bed crawled backwards as he flopped onto the deck of the boat, ripping out his respirator and pulling of his mask as he reached for the edge, vomiting. 

“Como foi o seu mergulho?” The captain asked, and Bed could hear the laughter and sarcasm dripping from the question. 

“Tubarões,” Bed coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he pushed himself to stand. He was shaking, and his ears were still ringing. “Grandes,” He laughed.


	2. Borrowed Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bed returns with his artifact and a proposition.

The captain’s face dropped as Bed made eye contact, and he took a step closer, reaching up to gesture his own eye. “Seu olho…” Bed copied the gesture, and his hand came away red. He must have popped a blood vessel in his eye. Bed swatted away the captain’s hand as he hung his oxygen tank and went under the deck, already beginning to shed his wetsuit. It would take them a few good hours to get back to shore, and Bed needed some rest before he started his work on the artifact. Bed had almost forgotten about it as he stripped, letting the heavy neoprene fall to his waist, the warm dusk air cool against his wet skin. But it was still clutched tightly in his hand, his knuckles almost white from the exertion. He forced his hand to open, releasing the capsule into a clear plastic bag before sealing it. Bed slid down onto the floor, feeling the engines start and began to examine whatever it was a little more closely. 

It was tube shaped, and almost smooth, except for the engravings etched into the sides. What Bed had thought was wood underwater seemed to actually be some kind of metal, which would explain the heaviness of the item. Bed turned it over, tracing the glyphs with his finger. 

_ Open,  _ a whispery voice commanded and Bed lifted his head, looking around his small cabin. His fingers felt electric where they made contact with the inscriptions, and Bed retracted his hand, dropping the cylinder to the floor. His eye began to water, and Bed quickly grabbed the artifact and placed it in his suitcase before making his way to the bathroom mirror, flipping on the light to examine the damage to his face. 

Bed leaned over the sink, gently pulling on his lower lid. The white had turned red, a sharp contrast to the bright blue in the middle. Bruises traced along his orbital bone where the mask made contact, and he hissed as he pushed on the blues and purples. Maybe he could convince Criken it was a bar fight. Bed returned to his bunk, laying down and putting in his earbuds before closing his eyes.

\-- 

“A bar fight? Bed do you really think I’m that stupid?” Criken exhaled, removing his glasses as he sank into his chair. Bed opened his mouth. “Please don’t answer that.” Criken leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. They were in Criken’s office, third floor of the MIT Archeology Department. Criken had just finished teaching his course on Ancient Romantic Death Rituals, and Bed was 36 hours out of the Caribbean. The two were opposites at the university, and people joked about a rivalry between them. Criken, with his neatly pressed button-ups and tweed sweaters and leather shoes and round rimmed glasses and Bed ,with his ripped t-shirts and cargo shorts and hiking boots and dusty backpacks. Criken stood, walking around the desk to closer inspect Bed’s face. 

“Bed, you know how dangerous this kind of thing can be,” Criken scolded, running a thumb gently over the bruising across his cheekbone. “Barometric trauma can be deadly.” 

“I’m fine though, nothing happened,” Bed tried to reassure, knowing that he didn’t look that convincing. Instead he looked tired and dirty and hungry. Criken sighed. 

“You could lose your job.” Criken mumbled, releasing Bed’s face. “You could’ve died.” Bed laughed. 

“I didn’t though. And look,” Bed opened up his backpack, carefully removing the cylinder. “I found something.” Criken rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me it’s from The City-” 

“The City of the Dead, yes,” Bed finished. 

“Bed, you know that place doesn’t exist.” Criken was always the most supportive of Bed’s endeavours, but Bed knew that Criken had his limits. “It’s a myth.” 

“So were all the other great archeological discoveries, until someone didn’t settle for the myth.” Bed smirked, hiding his fear and the shake in his voice as he once again held the capsule in his hands. He didn’t want to tell Criken about the whispers or the nightmares or the visions. He figured that might really be too much. Criken reached across the desk and grabbed Bed’s hands, steadying his grip on the artifact as it lay in its plastic bag. “Just let me examine it in the lab. Give me two months.” Criken didn’t let go of his hands.

“Bed, I’ve given you so much time.” Criken sounded drained, and Bed noticed the bags under his eyes. 

“Just a few more. If I don’t come up with anything, I promise, I’ll drop it once and for all.” 

“A Bed promise isn’t worth much,” Criken chuckled, releasing Bed’s hands. Bed quickly stowed the item back in his bag. “A week.” 

“Please.” Bed knew that wasn’t enough time. “A month.” Criken opened up a book on his desk, grabbing a pen and scribbling a few things that were illegible to Bed. 

“Fine.” Criken didn’t make eye contact with Bed. “Don’t make me regret this though.” Bed broke into a smile. 

“I won’t. Thank you Criken.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Criken still wouldn’t meet Bed’s stare, and Bed turned to leave. “Be careful.” Bed didn’t answer as he kept walking down the hallway. 


	3. The Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lab tests prove futile until Bed gets a little unorthodox.

Bed closed his eyes, not wanting to admit defeat. He had been examining the artifact for hours, and had gotten no closer to determining what it was. He had run carbon dating on the outside metal, tried to decipher the writings, even tried to pry the thing open. Nothing. Bed sat back in his chair with a disappointed sigh. The writing seemed to be a mix of Myan, Incan, Egyptian and even Mesopotamian, but nothing was translatable. The best Bed could guess was that it was actually gibberish meant to discourage people from tampering with the contents. The carvings were impressive, with very little tool marks, meaning that the crafter was extremely talented. The outside casing seemed to be made of bronze, but where the carvings were was embossed with silver.

Bed hadn’t noticed that the lab had cleared out, and as he removed one of his earbuds he realized that half the lights were off and he hit pause. He pushed back in his chair, looking up and down the row of black stone lab tables.

“Hello?” Bed called, silently cursing himself for losing track of time. Bed stood, hanging his headphones over his shoulders and pushed back his chair. He needed a drink. Bed stood, pulling off his latex gloves as he propped the lab door. He made his way down the hallway with his empty water bottle, the lights flickering on as they sensed his movement. The university claimed that by installing these types of lights, they helped save thousands of dollars a year on electricity. Bed thought they were ridiculous, especially when people were trying to work late into the night. He reached the water fountain, the lights turning off behind him, leaving him in relative darkness. Bed filled the bottle, the trickling of water sounding like a waterfall in the silence of the research building.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bed could see the lights at the other end of the hallway flicker on.

Bed froze, watching as the next lights turned on, then the next, then the next, steadily getting closer and closer to Bed. _Run._ He could hear himself say in his head, but his feet were stuck to the ground. Instead Bed closed his eyes, and the lights above him turned on. Bed inhaled, then exhaled and opened his eyes. No one was there. Bed let out a shaky laugh. Of course no one was here.

Why would there be?

Bed spun around and almost dropped his water bottle as the shadow figure that he had been seeing since the Caribbean disappeared. Bed dismissed the sightings as lack of sleep, his vivid imagination, maybe some kind of side effect of decompression sickness. But he had seen it enough that it had become worrying. It was always a flash; out of the corner of his eye, or in between blinks, or as Bed turned around before it was gone again. Bed shoved his headphones back in and walked quickly back to the lab, trying to keep his eyes down and avoid seeing anything he didn’t want to. He sat almost too quickly, catching his hand on his scraper resting on the workplace.

“Ah,” Bed promptly put his bottle down and grabbed at his hand as blood dripped from his fingers and down his arm and onto his papers, including the artifact. “Shit, shit, shit,” Bed whispered, feeling like he was close to tears as he began to panic. He had just ruined his only lead with a careless mistake. Red weeped across the silver inscriptions, and Bed sat in defeat.

Wait.

Bed leaned forward, watching the carving in the metal glow where the blood had ran over it. No way. Bed held his hand over the capsule and before he could rethink the idea, let more blood flow onto the item. More light filtered out of the canister, getting brighter and brighter. Bed squinted as he heard a click and watched as the cylinder fell open.

Inside was a small bundle of what looked like roots, wrapped around some kind of dark colored rock. Innocuous was Bed’s first impression. Bed hastily bandaged his hand and pulled on new rubber gloves. Something told Bed that whatever this was, it was important. Gingerly, he took hold of the sides of the relic, lifting it up to the light. He felt that same electric pull from last time, the same vibrations shoot up his fingertips.

But this time, he didn’t let go. The he turned the heart over in his hands, tracing the vines as they seemed to tighten around the black rock. Heart? Bed thought to himself, losing his place in his mental notes. Where had he come up with that? He must really be getting tired. Bed took a deep breath, placing the now two items into their plastic bags and removing his gloves, tidying up his lab space before hitting the lights, leaving the place dark once again.

Bed was more of a creature of habit than he would like to admit. When he was in town, he lived on campus, in faculty housing across the yard from the lab. He lived alone, which was nice, given that he liked to come in late at night and leave early in the morning, creating a trail of papers and scraps and dirt along the way. Bed didn’t mind the mess, it was how his brain operated. Tonight, as he shut and locked the door, the mess seemed smaller than usual before he remembered that he had packed a lot of his research for the Caribbean trip. He tossed his coat and bag on the floor, holding the plastic bag still in his hand, trying to decide the best resting place for it.

The coffee table was the most clear, so Bed put the bag down before he made his way to the bathroom for a shower. He caught a glimpse of the clock in the kitchen as he walked by: 3:46.

The water was never really hot, but Bed turned it as high as it would go before stepping in, rubbing soap over his goosebumped skin. When he finally turned the water off, he closed his eyes, leaning forward and resting his hands in front of him on the wall to let his head fall forward. Sooner or later, he realized, this stress was probably going to kill him. Bed pushed the shower curtain back, grabbing his towel and drying himself as best he could before throwing on his pajamas and heading to bed.

Bed tossed and turned, sleep coming in brief, fitful states before he awoke each time in a cold sweat. Eventually he gave up, coming to the conclusion that 5 A.M. wasn’t early to be awake. His feet hit the cold floor, and he padded to the kitchen, his eyes half shut as he turned on the coffee maker. He took a mug down from the cabinet and turned around, dropping the mug at the sight in his living room.

Papers that had been scattered the light before were arranged in rows surrounding the canister on the coffee table, covering the floor and even up onto the walls, snaking their way across the place like roots of a tree. As Bed took a step closer, he noticed that something black had been scratched across all the papers, in what looked like pen ink, and then smudged with a finger across the wall. Bed looked down at his own hands, seeing his fingertips covered in black. He walked into the center of the room, spinning as he tried to read the different words. There were words from all sorts of languages/

“Вернуть, tornar, vrátit se, reditus, regreso, powrót, retorna...retorna…” Bed paused. It wasn’t sentences. It was a single word. He looked down to the gnarled root covered stone, and felt a chill run down his back.

“Return.”


	4. Afýpnisi (αφύπνιση)

The next day, Bed tried his best to go about his day normally, but the scene in his living room kept flashing in his mind. He had tried his best to clean it up, but splotches of black stained the table and dragged across the wall. His hands, it seemed, were clean for now, but he began to worry about a Lady Macbeth-esque breakdown later in one of the lab’s bathrooms.

The lab was scattered with people this morning, students that looked his way when he entered, and professors that nodded as he walked past. Bed chose a station that was furthest from everyone and laid out his belongings._ What are you doing?_ A voice whispered in his ear, and Bed jumped.

“What?” He questioned out loud, and several of the white coated people near him raised their heads in concern. Bed laughed, ignoring their stares as he focused on his work._ Return_, the voice grated, and Bed fought the urge to scream. This was the result of stress and sleepless nights, he concluded. _Return._

“Return what?” Bed hissed as quietly as he could, glancing out the corner of his eyes to see if anyone was paying him any mind. _My heart_. Bed felt drawn again to the capsule and opened his bag, pulling the plastic wrapped artifact out and laying it on the tabletop. His hands shook as Bed opened the bag, carefully taking out the stone wrapped center. _Yes._ Bed pulled on gloves, keeping his eyes locked on the heart. He needed to know what it was.

A scalpel in hand, Bed leaned forward to take a scraping of the stone center. It appeared to be a shiny black, and as Bed pressed the blade to the surface, he heard a high pitched screeching noise. He dropped the scalpel and covered his ears. The noise stopped as suddenly as it started, and Bed could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. On the opposite wall, Bed caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked wild.

He rushed to the bathroom, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself down and talk his way through the situation. His hands looked dirty and black in the fluorescent lights, and Bed began to desperately wash them in the sink, making small, desperate noises over the sound of the flowing water. When he was sure his hands were once again clean, Bed shut off the water, hanging his head over the sink. When he looked up again into the mirror, something had changed.

It wasn’t Bed in the mirror. The figure copied his facial expressions and movements, and shared Bed’s height and bone structure, but that was where the similarities ended. Irises that glowed an eerie white stared back from a dirt covered face, and goat horns curled out of his hair and around the sides of his face. Silver jewelry wrapped around the horns and thick furs covered his shoulders As Bed raised his arm to touch his face, he could see rings adorning his hands. Bed tilted his head to one side, and then the other. The figure did the same.

The lights flickered, and Bed watched the figure smile before his hand darted out and grabbed Bed by the throat.

\--

Bed woke up in his own bed, soaking wet, dirt covering his hands. He gasped for breath, scratching at his own throat, his head full of memories that weren’t his own. The capsule was in his hands, once again covered in blood. Bed tried to wipe the dirt from his hands as he pushed himself up and tried to rationalize the experience.

He came up with nothing.

“What are you?” Bed called out to the empty air, feeling ridiculous, but not knowing what else to do. “What do you want?” Silence. Bed sighed.

_So many questions,_ Bed heard, with an almost laugh._ Let me show you._ Bed felt as if someone touched his lower back and looked down at his hands. Slowly, gently, hands that were blacker than a shadow creeped out from underneath his own and clasped on, and Bed felt himself fall backwards, his vision going dark.

_I’ve had many names_, a voice echoed from all around him. _Irpitiga, Cernunnos, Selvans, Tapio, Actaeon._ Bed felt as though he was hearing every aspect of the forest at once; the trees growing, the earthworms moving through the ground, the animals, the water, the wind itself. He knew those names, the names of different gods patroned to the woods and forests. _You understand. Those sailors stole my heart, and with it, my power. Return my heart._

Suddenly, a figure presented itself in front of Bed. He was small and lanky, a head of curly dark hair that seemed to move with an unseen breeze. His eyes glowed the same white that Bed had seen earlier, and he was adorn the same. This time, deer antlers stretched out like tree branches from his head, and dying flowers decorated them, petals falling to the ground. He looked up at Bed, his eyes praying for help. Please. Bed saw a reflection of fire in his eyes, smoke rising from his skin and realized. Whoever this old god was, he was dying.

Bed had never been one to believe, never one to pray to things unseen. “Why would I want to help you?” The figure in front of him screamed out in agony, disintegrating into ashes. Bed could hear his heart beating loudly in his ear, spinning around, seeing more black. His bare feet seemed to touch water and he looked down to see a black, viscous liquid climbing up his legs. His feet began to get extremely hot, and Bed lost it, whimpering and shaking his legs as whatever it was got higher and higher. He spun around once more, trying to escape the black tar and a hand went around his throat.

“Wrong answer.” The god growled, his arms and hands dripping the same black as what now held Bed in place. His eyes were now completely white, and a blackness dripped from the corners of his eyes like tears. “You will bring me to the City.” Bed tried scraping at his throat, kicking out to try and get free.

Bed bared his teeth. “What is it with you and throats?” Bed spat. “Fuck you.” The god smiled, flashing a set of sharp canines that seemed almost too big for his human mouth and Bed's vision faded before going black.

Bed awoke, dripping in sweat, and was back in his room. He felt like he had just been put on a long spin cycle and choked, coughing once as black bile dripped from his mouth. “Gross,” Bed mumbled, wiping the mess with his hand.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in his room, and Bed could almost pass the experience off as a delusion if not for his hands. He stared down at the black marks, stark against his pale skin, in between his fingers where the awakened god had gripped his skin. Bed exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, glancing in the mirror. He looked tired.

As Bed stared, he watched his own eyes flash white before he lost consciousness, falling back onto his bed.


	5. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's wrong with Bed, and Criken learns this a little too late.

Criken heard the intruder before he saw him.

It started as a low hum, a noise that Criken didn’t even register until it was loud enough to be considered annoying, but it rattled his body and sent chills up his spine. Criken put down the book he was reading, staring out at his open office door that led to the hallway, peering into the darkness beyond.

“Hello?” He called out, deep down hoping no one answered. Then he heard the next sound: a sliding, like heavy cloth on wooden floors, then the creaking of the main stairs as whatever it was slowly worked their way upstairs towards Criken’s office. Then the breathing. Labored and heavy, like whoever it was needed to force the air in and out deliberately. The sliding stopped as it reached the top of the stairs, just out of the light leaking out of his office from the dim lamp on his desk.

Growling, a muffled vibration that Criken was feeling more than he heard, clawed its way into office, and Criken felt himself freeze in fear. He wanted to cry out for help, but something told him that no one would make it in time. The floor creaked again, and Criken closed his eyes as whatever it was entered the room in a flurry. When Criken wasn’t immediately torn to pieces, he slowly opened his eyes, uncurling from the protected position he had adopted.

Bed stood in front of him, a strange light flashing in his eyes as he glanced from left to right. His hands seemed to be shaking, and his white shirt was stained with a horrible black liquid.

“Criken,” Bed was almost pleading, crawling his way over the desk. “Help me.”

“What’s wrong?” Criken gripped Bed’s shoulder’s and scanned his face, noticing a strange sheen, noting how pale he looked. “What happened?” Bed’s eyes fluttered and he went limp, falling into Criken’s shoulder. “Hey, Bed, hey,” Criken cradled his head, pushing him back up. “Stay with me.” Criken finally met Bed’s eyes and Bed pushed himself back and away, shock and panic making his body rigid.

“Stay back,” Bed warned, his tone final. He kicked out his feet as Criken tried to get closer, sending books and paperwork flying before Bed dropped hard to the floor. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Bed, I want to help, we might need to get you to a hospital,” Criken kneeled down, crawling towards Bed, as Bed crab-walked backwards. Criken wasn’t afraid for himself, he was afraid that his friend was in trouble.

“No! Don’t hurt him!” Bed cried, his voice breaking, and then he stared back at Criken. “Don’t get any closer.” Criken paused, but in confusion.

“Bed, please, what is happening?” Bed was cornered now, pushed as far back as he could be into the corner of the room, curled tightly into the fetal position. Criken watched him take a shaky breath.

“We used to worship them. Don’t you remember? And then we forgot about them. We grew and forged ahead and left them to rot. Most did. The ones that didn’t - they changed.” Bed paused for a moment, tears in his eyes and Criken inched closer. “Do you know what it’s like to be forgotten for all time? You lose your mind. He’s listening to me, and sometimes I can’t tell what’s him and what’s me and we blend together and I feel it. I feel his pain and suffering and that ache for what once was.” Criken was almost close enough to reach out and touch Bed’s arm, and Bed finally turned his head slowly towards Criken. His eyes weren’t blue anymore, but a glowing white. “Listen…can’t you hear it too?”

With more speed than Criken thought he was capable of, Bed reached out with both hands, grabbing the front of Criken’s shirt and throwing him backwards, his head slamming into the hardwood. As Bed straddled Criken’s chest, his hands around his throat, Criken had a moment of clarity as the stars cleared from his vision.

This wasn’t Bed.

There was a smell like fresh growth in the deep forest mixed with decay and rot that had accompanied Bed’s entrance that should’ve tipped Criken off to begin with. But now, with his hands around Criken’s neck, he could see it in his eyes.

They were scared, and held in them secrets that Criken could tell were not his own. The lamp that Bed had knocked to the ground flickered, and Criken realized that Bed wasn’t squeezing. He was holding Criken down. And he was waiting.

“Bed,” Criken managed to gasp, clawing at Bed’s hands, but it was no use. His mouth was half open, teeth bared, his lips stained the same black that had dripped down his shirt.

“I want you to hear too,” Bed whispered, but it wasn’t Bed’s voice. It grated out his throat, like an animal caught on briars, like the voice had been screaming before he had spoken, and Criken felt a tickle around his waist as the sensation of a hand reached up from the floor. It snaked its way up his stomach and across his chest, pulling him tighter to the floor. The hand glowed gold, and shimmered in and out of existence if Criken tried to look at it directly. His breathing quickened as panic set in, and another hand touched the back of his head, gingerly running its fingers through his hair before stoking the side of his face. Criken tried to pull away and escape, tilting his head away.

The hand covered his eyes and everything went black as Criken felt as if he was pulled into the floor, a burning sensation ripping across his chest.


	6. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries continue to pile up as Criken and Bed try and figure out what their new friends are planning.

Bed opened his eyes, gasping for breath and immediately feeling sick, his stomach turning. It was dark and much too loud, and Bed pushed himself up, his muscles straining with fatigue. His fingers found cold metal and he retched, black bile bubbling out of his throat and dripping onto the floor. Bed tasted smoke, and his mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. Another body curled next to him, their back facing Bed.

“Hey,” Bed groaned, crawling over, his throat felt as if he had been swallowing glass, and he fought back the pinpricks of tears in his eyes. A pounding echoed in his head as he grabbed the person’s shoulder and pulled them onto their back. Criken. Bed gasped as he looked over Criken’s lifeless body, recoiling his hand. His clothes had been burned in some places, and the skin blistered underneath. Bed pulled his own jacket tighter, swallowing hard. “Criken?” Red emergency lighting flickered overhead, and Bed realized that there were crates and boxes all around them, everything seemingly vibrating at the same consistency, the loud humming still ever present.

Criken hacked, his body convulsing, and Bed brought his attention back to his friend. He turned him on his side as a white foam dripped from his mouth, and Bed exhaled sharply, trying not to vomit again. There was a strong smell of ozone before Criken coughed again, his eyes finally fluttering open.

“Bed,” his voice was weak, and Bed could've sworn that for a moment, the whites of his eyes were black, the middle glowing gold but as soon as he blinked again it was gone, replaced with a deeply concerned brown. He reached out, and Bed caught his hand, gripping it tightly with his own. “What’s happening?” Bed had never known Criken to panic, let alone break a sweat, in situations where Bed would have certainly lost his cool. But he sounded so small and unsure, so close to broken, that Bed pulled Criken closer, letting his head rest on his chest as they sat together in some kind of metal storage unit, Bed’s coat wrapped around Criken’s shoulders.

“It’s going to be fine, I promise.” Bed couldn’t offer an explanation of what had happened before he woke up here. He remembered being at his apartment, hearing voices and then opening his eyes to see Criken underneath him, Bed’s own hands around his neck.

“Bed,” Criken repeated, pulling away to give room for conversation. He sniffled and took a breath before continuing. “There’s something inside me,” Criken whispered, and Bed felt memories flooding back, none of them good. “It…” Somewhere along the ride he had lost his glasses, and Bed realized how desperately sad he looked. “He’s listening,” Criken whispered, his eyes wide. Bed was suddenly very aware of how warm Criken felt in his arms.

“Criken,” Bed put a hand to the back of his forehead. “You’re burning up.” Criken smiled briefly, his face lighting up.

“I don’t feel so good Mr. Banana.” Bed gently punched Criken’s arm, earning him a weak laugh.

“That is not funny at all Criken.” Bed laughed back, much more nervously. Criken winced as he pushed himself up, glancing around at the red lights and the storage facility they seemed to be in.

“Where are we?” Bed opened his mouth to answer, but the lights flickered, and they both felt their stomachs drop as wherever they were shifted from side to side. A horrifying thought just occurred to Bed.

They weren’t on the ground.

They were on a plane.

“Hey asshole!” Bed yelled out, standing, his fists clenched. “I’m done being your puppet!” The lights above their heads flickered again, and Bed felt someone grab his hand. The air seemed to get pulled out of his lungs and Bed choked, falling down to his knees.

“Bed?” Criken strained, putting a hand on his shoulder before quickly recoiling, fear across his face. Bed knew what he saw.

Bed screamed, fighting as much as he could, flashes of different places entering his vision before the current reality returned. Criken abruptly was overtaken by the same pain, doubling over and clutching his temples.

“Don’t-” Bed struggled to get words out. “Don’t. Hurt. Him.” Bed’s vision was fading quickly, and he needed to think fast. “Please, I…” He exhaled, relaxing as much as he could. “I’ll help you if you don’t hurt him.” Bed felt as if a giant vice was released, and he could breathe again.

_I will not hurt your friend._ Criken’s hands found the metal floor and he panted, his eyes shut tightly.

“Thank you,” Bed whispered. “What do you need?”

_“Passage to the City. We will guide you.”_ Bed watched a figure slowly form over Criken. He was sturdy and tall, his eyes blazing black and gold, red hair flowing on top of his head. A white tunic wrapped its way around his body, and shimmering gold and white wings extended behind him. Bed felt his breath catch. Bed had studied enough carvings and drawings and manuscripts to know who that was. A sun god.

As suddenly as the god appeared he vanished, and Bed and Criken were once again left to the red lights and mechanical whirring of the jet engines. Bed watched Criken physically relax before his eyes widened at a spot above Bed’s head. He opened his mouth to speak and Bed heard a click of metal behind him.

“I wouldn’t try anything smart if I were you.” The voice was even and low, and Bed watched another figure appear out of the darkness behind Criken.

“Got a couple of stowaways, eh?” The man behind Criken joked, grabbing Criken’s head and pushing it back to get a clear look at his face. “What do you suppose we do?”

“Americans, by the looks of it,” The one with a gun reasoned, and Bed heard him chuckle. “Kill ‘em and dump the bodies when we land. We’ll be long gone by then.” The gun clicked again and Bed closed his eyes tight.

“Wait!” Criken exclaimed, holding his hands out. Bed could tell he was shaking. “We’re heading to the City of the Dead.” Both men laughed, but the one behind Bed lowered his gun.

“You think we believe that old tale?” Criken and Bed exchanged glances.

“We know exactly where it is.” The man seemed to get tired of Criken’s game.

“Why would I trust you?”

“You have a gun to my head, why would I lie?” The man stared Criken down, his aim unwavering.

“Boon, tie them up, we’re landing soon.” The man lowered his gun, walking back into the darkness as Boon went to work tying them both up. They waited in pained silence as he finished his job, and left the two alone once more.

“What did we get yourself into?” Criken laughed out of fear, but Bed didn’t answer, instead he pulled the sleeves of his coat down, hiding the black runes that were burned into his arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all its been a fuckin while, hasn't it?
> 
> EDIT: playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7zDR14CUOcGc4HQCUth52l?si=ZW-odn-qSiurbINrdoijjA


End file.
